


Annuo

by stardust_made



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M, Rimming, Romance, Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-30
Updated: 2012-01-30
Packaged: 2017-10-30 08:55:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,266
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/330009
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stardust_made/pseuds/stardust_made
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John’s bedroom is awash in the tender ash-darkness of early evening and in it, like exotic fish in a big tank, John and Sherlock glide against each other. John has waited for this moment for so long that he can barely remember what life was like before perpetual denial wedged itself into his very soul.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Annuo

**Author's Note:**

> Annuo (Latin, 'to give assent; to allow, grant, promise')

  
John’s bedroom is awash in the tender ash-darkness of early evening and in it, like exotic fish in a big tank, John and Sherlock glide against each other. John has waited for this moment for so long that he can barely remember what life was like before perpetual denial wedged itself into his very soul.  
  
Until tonight. Tonight, at last, he is allowed.  
  
Ironically, a goodbye was at the start of this. There were quarrels, arguments, and pleas, but the goodbye waited, inexorable. It was suffocating in its restraint, yet John’s hand fought ferociously and won, lifting to cup Sherlock’s neck for one single moment. Sherlock’s eyes turned iridescent and his lips popped open like the bud of a young rose in May. John felt Sherlock’s thin fingers curl around his neck in turn; a look stretched between them like a piece of thick, taut rope. Then a curt nod—and Sherlock was gone.  
  
Tonight, eleven months later, John found him in his bedroom. He walked in, unprepared, adamantly unhopeful, and there Sherlock was, slight and lean. Rushing to smother John in his embrace.  
  
Sherlock has always given John access, in his unique, roundabout way, but real access nonetheless. John’s been allowed in Sherlock’s head, in his work, in his life, and in his heart. Now he's allowed to disrobe Sherlock of all his clothes. He's allowed to open Sherlock's mouth and kiss him until neither could breathe. He's allowed to manoeuvre Sherlock onto his front. Besotted and grateful, John's been hovering over him, touching, tasting, while Sherlock has just sighed, over and over again.  
  
Yes, Sherlock has always given John access—  
  
John stills, something searing through him: a deep, choking desire, mingled with fear. He looks at his hand, caressing the smooth alabaster curve of Sherlock’s buttock, and he swallows. Can John—Will Sherlock—  
  
“Yes.”  
  
The answer to his silent, unfinished questions comes in half-whisper. It’s got a definite full stop at the end, yet John stops uncertain. He looks up at Sherlock’s profile and sees the drooping eyelids, the round tips of the teeth, barely outlined between the parted lips, the pink cheeks. Followed down by the long stretch of body, so awkward-looking in its relaxed pose. So trusting.  
  
John plasters himself over Sherlock, thankful he’s wearing his clothes to muffle the impact, but simultaneously hating the barrier. The material of his clothing is too rough, too offensive to that skin; that skin— it feels like God’s gift to his fingers. John rests his forehead against Sherlock’s face and closes his eyes, trying to throw an anchor in a sea so uncharted and so thrilling that it’s dizzying him. It’s as if he’s seeking a direct link between his mind and Sherlock’s; he wants to imprint his reassurance there: _I won’t hurt you, I will be so very, very careful, I would never hurt you, this is you, it’s all because of you, it's all for you—_  
  
“John.” Sherlock murmurs and then turns his chin to erase the ghost of words unspoken from John’s lips. John kisses him with slow, careful strokes of his tongue; Sherlock takes him in, sucks his tongue into his hot mouth, and it’s all decided in that instant, because how could there be going back after _that_? John shudders when Sherlock pulls away and rumbles against John’s mouth: “I said yes.”  
  
John sheds his clothes in an urgent blur of movement and his naked body stretches over Sherlock’s again. Every cell of his skin rejoices as it meets its counterpart. He slides one hand into Sherlock's grown, silky curls and pushes against the hairs natural direction, tilting Sherlock’s head and taking advantage of his gasp. John’s tongue is bolder this time, plunging in, while his cock repeats the movement, pressed between Sherlock’s back and John’s belly. _Yes, yes, yes_ is ringing in John’s ears—the permission waiting to be honoured.  
  
John slides down Sherlock’s body, his left hand pulling the pillow from under the dark head. He gently nudges Sherlock’s hip—“Lift.”—and places the pillow in the freed space. He uses the movement to spread Sherlock’s thighs a bit, the action and the result so erotic, John feels himself grow to full hardness. He can’t help but have a proper look and get high on the sight of Sherlock, waiting, offering himself to John unequivocally. John feels something twist in his chest, but _that_ , he's familiar with. It’s always been there, that connection, and the bond of trust that has left John humbled and possessed. Every time John has evidence of his unique importance in Sherlock’s life, it only serves to make him more willing to surrender himself to Sherlock, more desperate to give that man anything he wishes from him _._ Which is why now John dives between the open legs to do something he's never done before. His mind has always bolted away from that thought, but now something in John's belly sizzles in anticipation.  
  
He massages Sherlock’s bottom for some time, letting Sherlock get used to the touch. He knows this is something completely new for Sherlock, too—he doesn’t need to ask to know it. The awareness that this is a place, never as much as grazed by another man’s finger, makes John’s movements more gentle and appreciative. He’s always been a generous, considerate lover, but the care he feels for Sherlock is something else entirely and astounds him yet again. John’s palms knead lightly, spreading Sherlock’s cheeks open inch by inch, and soon the pink wrinkled spot begins flashing in front of John’s eyes. John works the flesh a bit longer, until his hands slow down and gradually stop, keeping the passage open. John doesn’t quite know what he should do next and goes with his instinct; it commands that Sherlock _must_ feel comfortable. John closes in and just breathes out a warm huff over the spot. There’s a tiny gasp from Sherlock but he doesn’t move, so John whooshes his hot breath out again, as if he’s trying to warm his hands in a cold winter night. His thumbs slither closer to Sherlock’s entrance with the next exhalation, then closer still with the one that follows—John brings his mouth almost to the point of touch and this time he senses a small tremor run through Sherlock’s body at John’s moist breath caressing him so near.  
  
 _Now_ , John thinks and gently brushes his mouth over the spot for a kiss. He feels the already tight flesh tense more under his lips, but he continues to bestow light kisses over it until it relaxes again. John finds himself eager now, to explore with his tongue and feel the different texture, to spin this intoxicating closeness further. His mouth waters helpfully and he gathers saliva at the front of it, then finally lets his tongue out to smear the wetness over Sherlock’s hole.  
  
This time Sherlock’s reaction is unmissable—there’s a sharp inhalation and a jerking movement to recoil. It’s instinctive to the novelty of the sensation, no doubt, because Sherlock relaxes back immediately and shuffles to spread his legs wider in a mute apology. John doesn’t need prompting. He swipes his flat tongue over the spot, then, heart racing and mind spinning with the audacity of his fantasies, he runs his tongue along Sherlock’s perineum, all the way up, to push it just once into the entrance. The push is light and fast, teasing almost, but Sherlock stutters something pleading and cants his hips up. John can’t hold himself any longer at such a clear invitation: he spreads Sherlock’s cheeks, buries his face between them and starts eating him. His tongue swirls and licks; loosened, it sweeps up and down, then its tip hardens and probes the hole over and over again, loosening it in turn. He closes his mouth over the spot with some suction, too—the hungry, vulgar, incredibly sexual noises coming from Sherlock in response to his ministrations only firing him more.  
  
John’s hands get active again, mashing the flesh and spreading Sherlock open wider for better access. He hears himself humming, occasionally growling gently, while he continues lavishing the already obscenely wet cleft. His mind is canting _I’m doing this_ to _Sherlock_ and _I’m doing this_ for _Sherlock_. His hands let go of Sherlock’s cheeks, careless that John's face will get trapped—he’d be happy to suffocate here, in his own, private ivory tower. He reaches out to caress Sherlock’s back, to rub and press his thighs, while his tongue penetrates Sherlock deeper and deeper.  
  
Sherlock is flushed like John’s never seen him even after their most daring pursuits. His eyes are closed and frantic, and his hands claw at the sheets involuntarily. John barely recognizes him so gone, so devoid of self-control, and his heart contracts in dark protectiveness. He crawls up over Sherlock, hissing when his cock insinuates itself between Sherlock’s slippery buttocks, then cradles Sherlock’s head in one hand and presses his lips to his ear to beg him.  
  
“What do you need? Tell me—Tell me what you want, tell—“ The words pull invisible strings around his throat and John feels himself stupidly silenced with emotion.  
  
Sherlock’s eyelids lift with effort and his lips tremble to speak, but only some rugged, unintelligible sounds come out at first. John presses his lips to Sherlock’s cheekbone, to his temple, into his damp hair, waiting for his commands. Sherlock exhales and John distinguishes some words.  
  
“You—I need—Please, John, now—I want you in me.”  
  
John tucks his chin into his chest and has to close his eyes to steady himself.  
  
“Yes, yes, okay,” he murmurs, when Sherlock lets out a low whine.  
  
This part he knows very well, but it’s still like the first time. His cock’s head penetrates slickly, almost with a pop, the sudden tightness around it making John bite his lip to the point of bleeding. Matters aren’t helped by the sweet moan that comes from Sherlock. John could feel Sherlock’s hips twitch as if impatient to have more of him, and he eases in, clenching his jaw at the incredible pleasure that rushes through him. Finally his cock is engulfed by Sherlock’s body and John has never had anything so throat-tightening, so shockingly intimate in his entire life.  
  
He starts moving but has to stop quickly as new, burning meanings of ecstasy courses through the synapses of his brain. Sherlock’s mouth is squashed open into wetness of pants and gasps, and John drops his body down to try and kiss it, lick into it. He lightly bites Sherlock’s neck, his earlobe, sucks on his throat, driven mad by the broken sounds that come from Sherlock. Finally he props himself up on his hands and starts fucking Sherlock with long, smooth strokes, lost for anything but the sight of beautiful submission that is his lover underneath him.  
  
But too soon John’s body betrays him—it’s greedy and it seeks more on its own volition. It changes the rhythm to shallow, exquisite strokes that pull John almost all the way out then push him barely in to tease the most sensitive area of his cock. He tries to go deep, to fill Sherlock in, but his body won’t let him, the feel of the tight, slick ring rubbing around his crown too good to relinquish. His own breath stutters—Sherlock lets out a whimper and hitches his hips _higher_ —and John makes the mistake to let his eyes fall to where his cock is sliding in and out of him.  
  
His chest arches as he comes, thrusting all the way in with a free, loud groan. He can feel his semen pulsing out of him like he’s rarely felt it—heavy and threatening in its all consuming release. His mouth has opened and his eyes have shut, but for all his abandon John knows whose body is so stretched around him, and that makes him growl and shove in again, and again, until at last he slumps forward.  
  
Sherlock is sweaty and trembling, noises and breaths whistling out of him in a wanton symphony of need. John kisses him sloppily wherever his mouth finds him, then pulls out and rolls Sherlock over on his back. Sherlock’s cock, glistening at the tip and downright pitiful in its red, hard strain, disappears into John’s mouth. John lets it hit the back of his throat, clasps around it and latches his tongue along its length as he draws it thickly out of his mouth. He does that only three times and Sherlock’s hand feebly grasps his hair as Sherlock’s heels dig into the bed and his thighs lift high up—John could feel the fingers tug and try to move his head away, but he stays put against their warning. He only opens his eyes to avidly watch Sherlock’s head thrash on the pillow—the memory of the desperate, slack curvature of his bottom lip will be enough to bring John off, should he ever have the utter misfortune to be without Sherlock again.  
  
He makes a half-decent job of cleaning them both, then slides up the bed to arrange Sherlock’s long limbs and cradle him. John hastens to pull the sheet to cover them both as he feels residual tremors in Sherlock’s body. Sherlock’s fingers find his, where they’re still holding the sheet, and squeeze them, then his hand drops, exhausted. For a long while there’s just the sound of heavy breathing transforming slowly into peace, and at long last Sherlock wriggles to press closer to John and murmurs, “I want to do that again.”  
  
John smiles.

**Author's Note:**

> Written in the last summer in a break between two chapters of my case-focused, novel-size fic "The Poster Girl". Unbeated—apologies for any mistakes. Originally posted [over here](http://stardust-made.livejournal.com/27345.html) at my Livejournal. If you feel like dropping me a line, I'd appreciate it if you did so there. Thank you for reading either way!:)


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